Heart of Fire
(1994)

The wind tore at the lone traveller’s white robe, bitterly cold, as sharp as the talons of Scatha the Worm of old. However, it bore neither snow nor hail, nor did any ice rime the stones underfoot, for here within the bowl of Ered Engrin the elements had contrived a parched and desolate wilderness.

Yet among this desolation, someone in years long forgotten had troubled to build a tower, its brutal, angular mass an ugly parody of the grand citadels of Arnor and Gondor.

And the traveller made his way unbendingly towards this tower to meet with his brethren within. “Curumo! Welcome!” said the first.

“Welcome, brother!” chorused the second. “You have come!”

The traveller was momentarily nonplussed, then: “Yes, I, Saruman the White, have come. Forgive my hesitation, but to hear the name of my youth struck me passing strange. But I know of no names to call you save Alatar and Pallando…” He shrugged of his knapsack and doffed his fur-lined robe to reveal a linen robe of the same white beneath.

“Among Men and Elves we are sometimes called Ithryn Luin,” said Alatar.

“The Blue Wizards, after the sea-blue robes we both wear,” continued Pallando.

“But we have no other names beside,” concluded Alatar, proferring a goblet of metheglin.

“It is strange to find you so far North, away from your belovëd forests, Alatar.” Saruman gratefully accepted the spiced mead, took a long draught, and seated himself by the fire.

“Perhaps. But Pallando and I have searched far and wide in pursuit of our quarry.”

“Or any means by which he can be defeated.”

“Given that the Dark Lord himself is not here with us,” said Saruman with kindly irony, “can I then presume that what you have found here is such a means?”

“Perhaps,” ventured Pallando, moving to stand by the fire.

“It may be,” echoed his fellow. “Curu- Saruman, do you recall the Rhymes of Lore?”

“I do recollect them. What in particular do you have in mind?”

Alatar and Pallando chanted together —

Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three,
What brought they from the foundering land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree.

“And you have found… what?” asked Saruman. Then with sudden insight: “One of the seven stones?”

“Yes! One of the palantíri of the Kings of Old; one of those that watch from afar“.

“Aye. A palantír – that which looks far away.”

Saruman reflected momentarily on this intelligence, gazing into the hearth and absently stroking his white beard. “But this is astonishing. How did it come to be so far East?”

“We think it may have been carried here by Men or Dwarves.”

“Who plundered Amon Sûl.”

“Or sacked Annúminas.”

But Saruman, enraptured with the possibilities afforded by this discovery, barely heeded their replies. He stood up from his chair and began to pace. “You have used this?”

“Yes. But once only. We have seen Sauron's stronghold in the South. I have seen tall battlements against a dark sky.”

“And I have seen his minions. Shades of Men who ride dark steeds. One wearing an iron crown.”

“But Sauron himself… ?”

“… we have not seen.”

“Nor tried to see.”

“Lest we reveal ourselves to him.”

“And we are not ready for such a trial.”

Saruman paused. “But, Alatar, Pallando, how should we use this palantír to defeat our Enemy?”

“We have little idea,” said Pallando diffidently.

“The stone is alien to us: it is no weapon of the hunt.”

“It is a device of a deeper art than we possess.”

Alatar recounted the little history that was known: “Noldor made the palantíri. Fëanor himself, maybe, wrought them. This stone is a thing of craft.”

“And so is something to be understood by another wise in smith-craft, a follower of Aulë, something to be bent to his – to your – will.”

“But what are you suggesting?“, Saruman exclaimed, with somewhat insincere dismay, “That I use the palantír to meet Sauron mind to mind and defeat him by strength of spirit.”

“Not yourself alone. Sauron is powerful.”

“More powerful than any one of us, even than yourself.”

“But the three of us in concert…”

“If you can find a way to use the stone to meld our minds, then together we can prevail against the Dark Lord.”

Saruman turned suddenly on the other wizards. “But should we do such a thing? Before we left the West we were forbidden to act openly against Sauron…”

“Not so. We were forbidden to reveal ourselves in forms of majesty.”

“Or to seek to rule the minds of Men or Elves by open display of power.”

“But in using the palantír, we wouldn't reveal ourselves.”

“Nor would we openly display our power.”

“You may have the right of it,” conceded Saruman, more quickly perhaps than prudence would dictate. “But still, we were bidden to advise Men and Elves to good, and to seek to unite in love and understanding all those whom Sauron will endeavour to dominate and corrupt.” He moved back to the fire, and stood with his back to the room and the two other wizards.

“Forgive us, Saruman, if we lack your wisdom.”

“We're Oromëan Maiar. Our instinct is to hunt.”

“Surely, if we can now destroy Sauron, we will deliver the Children of Arda from the risk of Sauron's dominion.”

“Curumo. If a village was threatened by a wild beast – a boar, say – and you were a hunter, would you seek to arm the villagers?”

“Or, given the opportunity, would you take arms against the boar yourself?”

In answer, Saruman only stared into the flames. At first the globe was dark, black as jet, with the torchlight gleaming on its surface. Then there came a faint glow and stir in the heart of it. Soon all the inside seemed on fire; the ball was spinning, or the lights within were revolving. Suddenly the lights went out. The wizards' bodies tensed, then became rigid.

Saruman was aware of his mind, his spirit: a skein of white within the heart of fire. As he concentrated, focussing on the flame, he was aware of the presence of the Ithryn Luin as two strands of sea blue, twisting together and apart, then finally entwining with the white.

As the fire died, the braid roiled outward through the darkness. Until it found the greater shadow. “Who are you?” He spoke without a voice, the words forming themselves within their minds.

Saruman projected what he wanted to say, his lips soundlessly rehearsing the words. “It is I, Saruman the White.”

“And we are the Ithryn Luin,” said Alatar and Pallando, their thoughts faint beside the others'.

“Saruman? The Ithryn Luin ?” They felt themselves brushed by his thoughts, as if naked beneath a single unblinking eye. “Aha! Of course! Curumo. Alatar. And Pallando. Have you come to pay me fealty?”

“No, Sauron. We seek your repentance.”

“I, repent? Never. You will bow down before me. I am Annatar. I am Artano. I am Aulendil.”

The blue filaments trembled, began to unravel from the white. But the white cord bound them more tightly, arrogating the Blue Wizards' power, and strengthening the braid. Which then thrummed with disdain:

“Lord of Gifts? Your only gifts are torment and misery!

“High-Smith? You forge only a chain to bind all Men and Elves to your will!

“And Aulendil? How dare you? You were devoted to no one but Morgoth, and without him, now only to yourself! How I pity you. How it shames me that you were one of my kin!”

The darkness enfolded the braid with scorn. “And will you pity me when I have all of Middle Earth in my possession? Will you be ashamed then?” Then he added slyly: “Or will you share in my triumph?”

“Never!”

“Never? Are you so sure of your power that you think you can resist my will?”

“I am sure that I will always strive to do so.” We are, we will, echoed the sea blue.

“Then so strive.” With which Sauron unleashed a dark wave of anger and hatred of such force that Saruman felt his mind fraying. His awareness wound in on itself and shrank to a mote suspended over a yawning chasm of darkness. And the blue threads unravelled from the braid. He mustered all his strength of spirit to oppose Sauron's relentless attack, but overwhelmed by Sauron's might, he could not again penetrate that darkness, only push against it.

In an instant, he was fully back within his own body, which had been flung backwards onto the cold stone floor. In his mind, echoes of malicious laughter faded.

Before him, on its pedestal, the palantír lay shattered, each shard opaque and dull.

And on either side of him lay the bodies which had held the spirits of Alatar and Pallando: weaker in might than Saruman, Sauron’s onslaught had hurled them to oblivion. Before he left, Saruman buried their remains beneath a simple cairn, marked with two strips of sea-blue cloth torn from their robes.

He resolved to redouble his efforts, to jealously increase his power and his lore. Next time, he thought, I will be prepared for you, Sauron.

But the seeds of his doom had already been sown.

― fin ―